The Fringe of Gotham
by writergirl712
Summary: When a bizarre attack kills Olivia Dunham's partner, the Gotham detective teams up with a con man for an investigation that hurls her into a world of strange events and mysterious conspiracies. But people are watching: a dark knight and a deadly joker.
1. An International Flight

**A/N:** Welcome to my second Fringe fic, and second crossover! For anyone who hasn't seen Batman Begins (I would recommend it, it's a pretty good movie), don't worry because it'll be pretty easy to follow along. I blend the two universes of Batman Begins and Fringe, so I'm taking characters and plots from each. Enjoy, and please review!

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><p><em>"<em>_How'd it go? I heard Jones isn't known for being exactly forthcoming."_

_"__It's hard to interrogate him. He has a way of making you feel like __you're__ being interrogated instead."_

_"__Did you get what you needed?"_

_"__In a way. GPD is making me come back, at any rate. My contacts can only get me so far, and even though we connected Jones to some of the attacks a couple years ago, he's not in Gotham right now."_

_"__Gordon's only interested in protecting Gotham. When are you leaving Hamburg?"_

_"__I managed to get a last minute flight out - 627. I should be back tonight."_

_"__Good. Take a cab to my apartment; I'll have a surprise waiting for you."_

_"__I can't wait. I've got to go now; we're starting to board the plane. I'll see you later."_

_"__I'll see you tonight."_

_"__I miss you, Olivia."_

_"…__I miss you too. Bye, John."_

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><p>Dressing up wasn't usually part of her job as a Gotham Police Department detective, so when Olivia Dunham had the opportunity, she took it, even if it was just to welcome back her partner and secret lover, John Scott (the department wasn't a massive fan of office romance). A half hour before John's plane was supposed to land at the Archie Goodwin International Airport, Olivia was spruced up in a slim black dress and searching in closets for a candle to go with the bottle of wine and two wine glasses standing on her table. Normally she and John would share some harder liquor, but this was a special occasion.<p>

After finding a spare candle in a box in her coat closet, Olivia lit it and set it next to the wine. Settling down into one of the two chairs at the table, she took a moment to catch her breath and relax. It had been a long week, made even more lonely by John's absence. He'd gone to Hamburg to interrogate a criminal who had still-unproven connections to a series of attacks that had happened in Gotham a few years ago. Usually a Gotham detective wouldn't have the resources to go abroad for that kind of case, but John had a slew of contacts that he'd made over the years. It was almost a skill, the way he met the right people and got the right opportunities. He was charming, clever, efficient, and determined – all qualities that were helping him rise in the ranks of the GPD. He was a detective, but only at the moment.

Olivia was practically his opposite. Her previous position as an investigator for the FBI was not doing her any favors in the Gotham Police Department. Most of the cops there thought she was some kind of spy from the FBI, come to keep an eye on one of the nation's most corrupt city law enforcement departments, or maybe report on its failings. They treated her half-warily, half-contemptuously, as if expecting her to look down on them for their lower budget and quality of officers. Lieutenant James Gordon certainly thought so. It made her job all the more difficult.

Sighing, Olivia fingered one of the wineglasses, idly wishing she could just open the bottle and start at it right away. But no – she was going to wait for John, who was now supposed to land at any minute. A ten minute ride, and he'd be at the door. They'd share the bottle of wine, talk, make up for the time that they lost while he was away-

Her phone rang.

Getting to her feet, Olivia crossed the kitchen with a few steps and picked up her phone, which was lying next to her badge and gun on the counter.

"Dunham."

"Detective." It was Gordon, sounding as unhappy to talk to her as he always did. "I hope you didn't have any plans for tonight."

Olivia glanced over her shoulder at the candle, wine bottle, and glasses on the kitchen table.

"Not anymore," she replied.

"Good. There's been an incident at Archie Goodwin, an international flight. Meet me on the tarmac in ten minutes."

Something in Olivia's chest tightened at the words 'international flight'. But there were many international flights that were always coming in at the airport. It didn't necessarily mean anything. Then again, she didn't solve some of her cases by ignoring her hunches.

Somehow, her voice remained calm.

"Yes sir. I'm on my way."


	2. Flight 627

As Olivia pulled into Gotham's Archie Goodwin International Airport, the full scale of the situation hit her. Judging from the police cars strewn around half of the tarmac, almost all of the international flights had been canceled. She was forced to talk the guard into letting her in, even after he'd verified her GPD detective badge, and one glance around at the parked cars and vans told her that this was more than just a city or state incident – this was national. Not only had the FBI shown up, but also the CIA, CDC, ATF, and more. Obviously, this was a joint task force; as a local detective, getting information from them would be difficult.

Lieutenant James Gordon was waiting on the outskirts of the commotion, which was centered on a large plane which boasted its airline, Glatterflug Airlines, on both sides. The beams from numerous bright spotlights were focused on the plane, which loomed ominously over the tarmac and the swarm of dark-clothed federal officers, all of whom were bundled in trenchcoats and jackets against the cool spring night. The flashes of red and blue from the police cars parked nearby lit up the perimeter.

As Olivia neared the crowd, she saw that Gordon was conversing with a serious-looking man sporting a badge – not doubt FBI – on the lapels of his black trenchcoat. Gordon was listening and nodding, his eyes grave behind his large glasses, his mouth set grimly underneath a thick, trimmed gray mustache. As soon as he saw Olivia, however, he beckoned her over and introduced her.

"Detective Dunham, this is Agent Loeb. He's part of the FBI. Agent Loeb, Detective Dunham of the GPD." Olivia shook Loeb's hand briefly, meeting his bright blue eyes with her own green ones. He seemed vaguely familiar, and she could tell that he recognized her too. Probably from the FBI, she assumed. If he was here and willing to talk to them, he must have been Gordon's connection to the FBI.

"So what are we dealing with here?" Olivia asked, turning to scan the plane. "International flight from Germany?"

"Hamburg," Agent Loeb replied, and with that one word, Olivia's heart dropped. She did not need Loeb to tell her that it was Flight 627, or that there were Americans on board. Judging from Gordon's expression, he didn't know that one of his own detectives had been on that plane. She wasn't going to be the one to tell him. Even as a feeling of dread and panic began to rise in Olivia's chest, she fought to keep her face impassive as she listened to Loeb.

"147 passengers," the agent was saying. "Tower lost contact three hours in. They thought it might have been electrical interference. They enter in Gotham airspace radio silent. Navy them scrambled two F-18s for escort. They reported blood stains on the windows, no signs of life aboard the jet. White House approved the CDC's request for the jet not to be opened until they arrive."

Olivia looked sharply at Loeb.

"No signs of life? Who was flying the plane?"

"Archie Goodwin is one of the first airports with the PEARL autopilot system," Gordon told her. "Plane landed itself right on time, unlike every flight I've ever taken," he added. He glanced at Olivia and answered her unspoken question. "They've put together a joint task force, but they're not letting GPD investigate. We're not going in."

"Of course not," Olivia muttered under her breath. Agent Loeb heard her and shrugged.

"This is a matter of national security, Detective Dunham," he stated bluntly. "This isn't your average Gotham crime. This is beyond Gotham."

Olivia just nodded. The rising feeling in her chest had become a cold, hard knot scorching her somewhere beneath her breastbone. She had to know.

As she began to turn away from the plane, Olivia's eyes detected a shift of movement in the shadows below the right wing of the plane where nothing was supposed to be; everyone was being forced to stand at least 20 feet clear of the plane until the last of the CDC arrived. But she could've sworn she'd seen movement, like something dark slipping in the shadow, black on black. When she looked closer, however, she saw nothing. Olivia pushed it from her mind.

"Would you excuse me?" Without waiting for an answer from Gordon or Loeb, the detective turned and began walking away as she began dialing furiously into her cell phone. Even though she'd technically left the Bureau, she still had some of her old contacts – friends who were close enough to give her the information that she needed, and people who owed her favors. If she couldn't get into that plane, she'd get the next best thing.

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><p>It took hours for Gordon and Olivia to comb through the scene, questioning agents and officers and trying to come up with any useful information for them to use. The interagency task force, under the Department of Homeland Security's Special Agent Philip Broyles, had an official report for the GPD, but it was lacking in details. No one from the GPD was let into the plane, even though agents in Level 4 Hazmat suits began to go in and out collecting evidence and, after a long while, bringing out bodybags.<p>

Olivia wasn't surprised that GPD was being kept out of the loop. Even though the new theme of policing was interagency cooperation – especially in matters of terrorism like this – federal agencies were notorious for their lack of communication with each other. They were known to keep information and secrets from each other. If federal agencies couldn't work together without conflict, they could hardly be expected to work with local law enforcement.

Besides, she suspected that Special Agent Philip Broyles had specifically ordered his agents to keep information from the GPD because of her. Broyles was a good friend of Sanford Harris, a man whom Olivia had prosecuted for sexually assaulting three women while she had been a military prosecutor. After Olivia had joined the FBI, Harris' charges had been overturned and – as the new consultant for the Department of Homeland Security - he'd wreaked his revenge on her by investigating her and eventually getting her fired, citing that Olivia's sanity, loyalty, and worthiness to serve her country had been compromised.

No one in the GPD knew the truth of why Olivia was no longer part of the FBI, and few in the FBI itself knew. The friends she'd made in her department didn't have the power to stand up against Harris; they could only voice their support for her. Agent Charlie Francis, in particular, had been a good friend. After Olivia had had to leave the Bureau, Charlie had pulled some strings to get her the detective position at the GPD.

It was Charlie who called Olivia back first after her numerous calls to her former FBI contacts. Olivia had just finished questioning a particularly uncooperative CDC agent when her phone rang.

"Dunham."

"Hey, Liv."

"Charlie." Olivia's shoulders sagged with relief. Glancing around the tarmac for a familiar face – no luck, since everyone was wearing black – she asked, "Where are you?"

"Right behind you."

Olivia turned around to see her friend striding over, cell phone to his ear. Smiling, the two of them hung up and shook hands warmly.

"I thought this might be kinda safer," Charlie explained, pocketing his phone. "When federal agencies are involved in this big an event, they have a habit of tapping phones." Olivia nodded. It was the same reason why she'd been vague in the voicemail that she'd left Charlie. "Anyway," Charlie continued, "what do you need?"

"Did you go in?" Olivia asked frankly.

Charlie nodded, his mouth set in a grim line.

"Let me guess, GPD wasn't welcomed in with open arms?" he asked. Olivia smiled wryly.

"Not exactly." She glanced around, then looked back at her friend directly in the eyes. "I need to know what's in there," she told him urgently. "I need details, clues, anything. This investigation is extremely important to me."

Charlie raised his eyebrows.

"If I didn't know you," he said, "I would cite all the rules and regulations that would prevent me from doing that. But-" he cut off Olivia as she opened her mouth to protest "-since I know you, I know I'd be wasting my time."

Olivia swallowed and threw all caution to the winds.

"Charlie, my partner was on that plane."

"My God. Liv, I'm sorry." Taking a deep breath, Charlie exhaled slowly, hands deep in his pockets as he looked around, thinking. Olivia simply watched him and waited calmly. Either he would help her, or he wouldn't. She knew she was asking for a lot, but she also knew that they both knew he owed her. They'd gone through a lot in the FBI, and she'd saved his life just as many times as he'd saved hers. They had been friends as much as they'd been co-workers.

"All right." Charlie met Olivia's gaze, his expression resolute. "Legally I cannot tell you what I've seen on that plane. But I can tell you that the bodies are being placed in a warehouse off of Gotham Harbor. If you go there, security will let you in with my say-so." Olivia nodded and Charlie looked away, his eyes inspecting their surroundings and the nearest agents. "I can also tell you that Evidence Control Unit's photos of what's in that plane might find their way to your door tomorrow morning, assuming you would stay in on Saturday morning to receive them."

Charlie looked back at Olivia, his face dead serious. "That much I can say, Liv. Whether or not you want to act on that is up to you."

It was more than she'd asked or expected. Olivia shook Charlie's hand firmly.

"Thanks, Charlie," she said gratefully. "I won't ask for anything else on this case." Before she turned away, her friend's voice stopped her.

"Liv." Olivia turned back to look at him. Charlie's eyebrows were knitted with worry, and he looked more troubled than she had ever seen him. "Be careful, ok? This case...I feel like there's something else to it – something dangerous."

Olivia nodded confidently to assuage his fears.

"I'll keep that in mind."

She knew exactly what he meant. She'd felt it too; it was a hunch that this investigation was much more than it seemed.

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><p><strong>AN: **Charlie Francis cameo! Mitchell Loeb cameo! For those who like the Nolan Batman universe, there will be Batman characters cameos! Stay tuned for the next part, and send me a review!

I am now finished with the exclamation marks.


	3. Cold Heart

**A/N: **Whoops, so I wrote up a new chapter (quite a long one) and forgot to upload it! Anyway, here it is, and you can be sure that I'll still be working on this fic. It's definitely the most complicated I've done so far.

Read and review please!

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><p>After a couple years in Gotham and hours spent poring over city maps, Olivia had memorized every street and alleyway. With Charlie's clue that the victims' bodies were in a warehouse off Gotham Harbor, she could narrow it down to a handful if she factored in which ones were empty, available, big enough to hold 147 people, and out of public sight. Then again, it also helped that only one of the warehouses had a swarm of police cars and black SUV's parked nearby. Security would mostly certainly be tight.<p>

Fortunately, Olivia's badge and Charlie's word were enough for her to get into the building, which was heavily guarded at every entrance and exit. Even at the main entrance, which was guarded by several agents, Olivia was forced to reconfirm her identity and rank at three different stations before she made it to the main area itself. The government was clearly making sure that it was impossible for anyone to get in undetected and unapproved. But when Olivia finally made it to the inner area, she saw why.

Rows upon rows of neatly arranged bodies were spread across the ground on tarps. Each individual body lay next to any of its belongings or baggage, all of it in the process of being tagged and marked. The lighting in the warehouse was bright, leaving no shadow upon the scene as federal agents hurried around, studying and taking pictures of the bodies and evidence, writing things down, and conferring with each other. Tables full of medical equipment, computers, and paperwork crowded next to the bodies and several wheeled coat-racks on which suit jackets were hung. Clearly, some of the agents had been working there or were planning to work there for a long time.

As Olivia approached the scene, her eyes fell on the first body. It was a woman in her early forties, with short brown hair shot with a few strands of gray. Her body and clothes were covered with rips as if she'd been slashed repeatedly, and one particularly bloody cut across the throat showed her cause of death. She lay next to the body of a little girl who was unmistakeably her daughter. The girl, around seven years old, looked as if she'd been beaten; her body was covered in bruises and broken bones.

Olivia raised her gaze to scan the rows of bodies, her heart cold. She had seen many things as part of the FBI and GPD, but this was different. There were children among the victims, and families. Young couples who had been vacationing in Germany. Businessmen and women coming back from trips. 147 unassuming people whose only mistake was to board a plane.

In instances like this, an agent was supposed to confine his or her emotions to a small section of the mind in order for reason and good judgment to take over without an emotional bias or burden. Olivia had never adhered to this. Her emotions in her cases made her stronger, not weaker. They let her empathize with the victims and imagine what they were going through, and that gave her motivation and a drive to solve the case and carry out justice, even when others had given up. It was what made her a good agent and now, detective.

But sometimes, in instances like this, her cases left her empty. Hollow. The horrors of what she saw took her breath away and left her with a mixture of sorrow and cold fury. At that moment, she knew she would never let this case drop. She would take this case no matter the consequences. She would pursue it until the perpetrators were brought to justice. Screw Broyles and the FBI. Justice went beyond guidelines and office politics.

The bodies of the mother and daughter were only the beginning. As Olivia continued down the line of corpses lined up on the tarp, she saw that the causes of death for the first two victims were unique. The next victim was covered in third degree burns. Yet although his skin was blackened and charred, his clothes were unblemished. Whatever had caused this man's body to burn, it missed his clothes entirely.

He wasn't the only one with a mysterious cause of death. The woman next to him – Olivia saw with a jolt that they wore matching engagement rings – had numerous animal bite marks all over her body. Her throat looked like it had been ripped open. The next woman's skin was swollen, as if she had been stung by hundreds of bees, and the man next to her had all the signs of hypothermia. But from what Olivia had gathered so far, there had been no animals or bees on board the plane, and the temperature had not been hot enough for burns or cold enough for hypothermia.

It didn't make sense to her, and it seemed that the agents examining the bodies were just as mystified. They went through each corpse – taking pictures, searching for clues, conferring with one another, and writing down information. Surely they were also looking for the identification of the victims; they would have to contact the victims' next-of-kin and tell them the bad news. But as Olivia knew from working in the federal government, the families of the victims would not learn the whole story; they would be told that there was some kind of accident or attack, but they would not be given details of the deaths. They would not be allowed to see the bodies.

And then she saw John.

His face was unmistakable; all square jaw and straight nose. His body was intact, unlike the other victims, except for a small round hole in his chest, and the dark red stain on his suit around the hole. When one of the two CDC employees moved his body to inspect his back, she revealed a matching bullet hole and blood stain on his back. The CDC employee was relating a steady stream of observations to the other employee, who was jotting down the information. Olivia paused in front of them.

"What can you tell me about this man's cause of death?" she asked, voice quiet. The two from the CDC - most likely emergency response specialists - looked up at her from where they were kneeling next to John's body. They looked her over for a moment, obviously trying to figure out what agency she was from, before deciding that if she was there, she was most likely part of the investigation.

"The victim has all the signs of a bullet wound to the base of the spine," said one of the specialists finally. She was the one examining the body. "Paralysis was immediate." Laying John back down on the tarp, she pointed at the dark stain against his chest. "Bullet wound through the heart. He was killed instantly."

Olivia nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat as she kept her expression neutral. The other specialist, the one who had been taking the notes, was scrutinizing her.

"Are you part of the investigation?" he asked abruptly. When Olivia met his gaze, she saw questioning in his eyes. He was more curious than accusing. Olivia glanced at the other specialist, who was staring at her as well, before nodding curtly. Technically, she was part of the investigation – she was just working under Gordon and the GPD, not Broyles and his interagency investigation.

"His name is Detective John Scott. Check the hidden pocket on the right side of the inside of his jacket for his badge." The female specialist obeyed. Searching the inside of John's suit jacket, she came up with his GPD badge and wallet. Flipping it open, she revealed his ID.

Olivia walked away before they could question her further, but before she was out of earshot, she heard the female specialist ask, "How did she know?"

"Did you see her own badge?" the male specialist replied, his voice softer. "They're both from GPD. They're probably partners." As Olivia strode away, she could feel their eyes on her.

She didn't recognize any of the other victims as she continued down the long line, inspecting the bodies while listening to the other agents' conversations. They discussed the details of the case in sturdy, detached tones, as if they were talking about last night's dinner, not a biochemical attack that had killed hundreds of innocent people. This is what they were trained to do, yet Olivia knew that Flight 627 was nothing that they were prepared for.

From eavesdropping, Olivia learned that the victims had died in a variety of ways and with completely different symptoms, yet there was no cause of death. Preliminary tests done on the air of the cabin, the fluids in the victims' bodies, and the food and drink in the plane came up with nothing unusual. 147 deaths, and no cause - no killer. Despite the efforts of a room full of highly-trained agents working without respite, background checks on each of the victims and cross comparisons of any similarities revealed no answer. Everyone was stymied.

"-Broyles considered Batman having a hand in this?"

Olivia paused to crouch down in front of the body of a man who looked as if he had drowned (his clothes were completely dry) to listen to two male FBI agents speaking in hushed voices behind her. The agent who had spoken first sounded uneasy, uncertain. The second one sounded more sure.

"That's just a superstition in Gotham," he replied dismissively. "Police made that up to keep the criminals under control."

"I don't know," the first agent said, unconvinced. "Someone's been cleaning up the crime around here, and it's not GPD."

There was a brief moment of silence as they both considered this. Olivia, her eyes still on the victim in front of her, pursed her lips but gave no other sign that she had heard them. Hints of Gotham City's new Dark Knight had begun to crop up all over the city just a few months ago: wanted criminals found bound and unconscious in front of police headquarters; citizens swearing that a dark monstrous bat had saved them from being mugged or beaten; and terrified suspects who abruptly began confessing to crimes that the GPD had spent months trying to prove.

Outside of Gotham, Batman was seen as a myth, and the decrease in crime was attributed to the GPD (which, politically, was to Gordon and the GPD's benefit). There was no hard evidence of his existence, yet his influence had settled on the city. Although everyone claimed he was called "Batman", the name was never spoken at the GPD. Whenever anyone hinted at the Dark Knight, Gordon shut them down abruptly. If any officers had seen Batman with their own two eyes, none mentioned it. Olivia herself had never seen him, but that didn't mean anything; the evidence pointed to another factor, outside of the GPD, that was fighting crime at night.

Olivia was about to get up and leave when the second agent finally responded, slightly apprehensively, "Let the GPD deal with Batman. We don't have time for an urban myth." A moment later, the two agents walked away, leaving Olivia to ponder their conversation.

Was Batman involved in Flight 627? So far, he had done nothing to harm Gotham; on the contrary, he had improved it dramatically. Yet he was too much of a mystery to assume that the vigilante existed only to benefit the city. Attacking a flight of innocent people flying into Gotham didn't line up with his actions so far, but no one could accurately explain what Batman's motives and agenda truly were. For all they knew, he was capable of international terrorism.

Batman was dangerous enough to factor him into the investigation, Olivia decided, getting to her feet and looking around. She would not consider him a suspect until she gained more evidence, but he was someone to keep in mind.

A glance at her watch told Olivia that she had been at the lab for hours - it was already three in the morning. She had gone through the warehouse thoroughly, but was no closer to finding answers than she had been when she had arrived there. The detective was about to make another round of inspections when something in her peripheral vision made her turn. Something - she wasn't sure what exactly - had moved in the shadows near the glass roof of the warehouse. The glaring beams of the lights hung several feet below the roof, which left shadows around the catwalk circling the room below. Someone - or something - was stalking those shadows on the catwalk.

Without a moment's hesitation, Olivia casually made her way to the nearest ladder that stretched up to the catwalk. Since the agents in the investigation had set up bright lights surrounding the tarps and aimed at the bodies, the areas behind the lights were dimmer. Nobody seemed to notice as Olivia sidled over to the shadowy ladder at the edge of the warehouse and began to climb. She did not look down.

After reaching the top of the ladder and stepping onto the catwalk, Olivia strode towards the area where she had seen the movement. There was nothing; no sign that showed someone had been up here, studying the scene below. Nobody had gone down the ladder, which meant that the only other way someone had made his or her way to the catwalk was from above.

Olivia looked up. The glass panes of the transparent ceiling, which was sectioned into glass squares, was just beyond her reach. After looking around and failing to see any object for her to step on, the detective placed her foot on the waist-high railing that divided the catwalk from the open air, and hoisted herself up.

There was a brief moment of alarm as Olivia wobbled dangerously on the thin rail, before she steadied herself by bracing her shoulder against the roof and splaying her right hand against the surface of the glass. With her left hand, she lifted the nearest pane up and slid it aside. The glass was thick and sturdy, built to survive the rough elements that sometimes blew into Gotham's harbor. A cold breeze snaked inside. Taking a deep breath, Olivia placed both hands against the edge of the glass, preparing to raise herself up-

-and almost fell backwards at the sound of a gravely voice.

"Liv?"

In a second Olivia had straightened, then unholstered and raised her gun with her right hand, her left hand still holding onto the edge of the glass. By then, her eyes had adjusted to the dimness, so she could make out the puzzled expression of Charlie. The agent was standing ten feet away on the catwalk, his hands up at her reaction.

"It's just me," he told her calmly. "What are you doing?"

Olivia stared at Charlie, realizing how ridiculous she must have looked right then, standing on the rails and about to lever herself outside onto the roof. She lowered her gun slowly, then holstered it.

"I thought I saw someone up here," she replied finally. Her hands free again, she slid the plane of glass back into place and jumped down onto the catwalk. Charlie had lowered his hands.

"It's just us," he said. He spoke slowly and calmly, assuring her. "There are guards outside on every ladder up here, and there's only two ladders from the inside. There's no way someone outside of the investigation could've come up." The agent looked closer at her. "Are you ok?"

Olivia swallowed, linking her hands in front of her. She did not want to think of what Charlie thought of her now. At worst, he thought she was crazy. At best, he thought she was being irrational.

"Yeah," she replied, trying to keep her tone casual. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Charlie still looked concerned. Then again, he had just caught her trying to exit the warehouse through the roof.

"Liv, go home and get some sleep," he told her firmly. "I'll contact you later with more information."

Olivia nodded, partly because she agreed that she needed some sleep, and partly because she didn't want him to be more concerned over her mental and emotional well-being. She was in control, damn it. She was not being irrational; she was being thorough.

"Ok, I'll see you tomorrow."

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><p>The ride away from the warehouse was no easier than the ride to it. Olivia kept herself stoic, though she knew it wouldn't last. She could keep up this facade of professional detachment in front of the other agents - like Broyles - who would think less of her for being emotional, but everything was different when she was home. There, she did not have to answer to anyone, or force herself to act in any way that was not herself.<p>

She let herself into her apartment, going through the motions automatically: turn on the lights; glance around the room; place her badge, gun, keys, and wallet on the kitchen counter; and hang up her coat in the hallway closet. It was only after her routine was done that the woman began heading towards her bedroom. Before she had taken a few steps, however, something caught her eye - something on the table.

It was the wine bottle, glasses, and candle. For a moment Olivia stood staring at the objects, comprehension dawning on her as she remembered her plans with John. Only hours ago, she had been here, happy, waiting to see him. She couldn't remember what that felt like.

Her throat constricted. Jaw clenched, she grabbed the bottle and glasses and put them away in the cabinet, shutting the cabinet door a little too firmly. Turning back to the table and seeing the candle, she seized that too and put it back into its box in the closet, her hands now shaking. The hard, cold feeling in her chest tightened as she slammed the pantry door shut, and then she was sinking to the ground, her back to the door, as the tears she had kept inside suddenly burst forth as if from a dam. She crumpled to the floor, knees drawn against her chest as she sobbed, grief washing over her in waves. Every time she began to calm down, there was that realization that John was dead, that he was gone, that he would never come back-

Every time that happened, she would begin crying anew, pushing her hair away from her face and covering her mouth with her hands as if to stifle the sound of her sobs. In her life she had faced her fair share of grief, but this was different. This was her partner, her friend, her lover. This was John.

It was a long night.


End file.
